


The Hairpin

by KnightNight7203



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 22:44:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20071834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnightNight7203/pseuds/KnightNight7203
Summary: "Katherine's window is always open, something Jack has come to expect by now. Until the one day when it's not." In which Jack braves germs and the wrath in order to hopefully make Katherine feel a little better.





	The Hairpin

**Author's Note:**

> Just realized I never posted some of my older Newsies stuff from ff.net over here! In honor of me counting my Newsies words and finding out I have produced 88,000 of them, I figured I'd bring these on over in case anybody hasn't seen them yet :)

Katherine’s window is _always_ open, something Jack has come to expect by now. If he needs to see her, he knows he can, whether it’s to reassure himself after a particularly bad nightmare or just to tell her about something the boys did. Or to kiss her and hold her close, which has been happening more and more recently. He knows she enjoys this as much as he does, because her window is always unlocked, making it easy for him to sneak up behind her and wrap his arms around her tiny waist.

Until the one day when it’s not.

So he stands there on the fire escape and thinks about what that might mean. Either she’s late coming home from work, or she forgot to unlock it when she came in. The lights are on and her coat is draped over her chair, so that rules out the first option. But she’s never forgotten before — Katherine Plumber never forgets _anything_ — so he doesn’t know what’s going on.

Unless she doesn’t want to see him?

Hopefully that’s not it. He doesn’t think that’s it. She hasn’t even yelled at him yet this week, at least not that he can remember. So he takes one of her old hairpins out of his pocket, makes quick work of the lock, and slips inside before he gets smart and changes his mind.

He doesn’t see, or hear, anything inside.

He wanders from her bright but empty bedroom into the kitchen, where there are more lights on. There are a few bags on the counter, and, peeking inside, he sees her evening meal — with enough to share, which makes him smile — wrapped neatly inside. Her study is also empty, though there’s a fresh blank page in her typewriter, and there’s a cup knocked over on the floor, water seeping into the carpet. He picks it up and takes it to the sink. Should he put something on the puddle? He knows where she keeps her limited supply of food in the kitchen, but not the towels. It’s never been something he needed to know before. She always has to do something to make herself feel useful when he’s cooking, even if it’s just mopping up the carton of milk he knocked over with his elbow when he turned too quickly.

The bathroom door is also locked, but there’s a light shining out from under the door. When no one answers his knock, he pulls out the hairpin again, thinking that it’s a good thing he’s gotten so good at this. In retrospect maybe it’s not such a great plan — God only knows what she’s doing in there, and she might get very mad if, say, she’s in some state of undress or something — but also, she could be hurt. She could have hit her head, or drowned in the bathtub. Maybe she needs rescued.

So he barges in, and it doesn’t matter that he maybe doesn’t look as heroic as he imagined he would, because she’s lying on the bathmat, eyes closed, and barely stirs when the door slams back against the wall.

“Um . . . Ace?” he asks in a soft voice, running his hand through his hair. This is unexpected. “Are . . . Are you okay?”

She manages a murmur of quiet assent, peering up at him through her eyelashes, and then drags herself to the toilet and throws up.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, sitting himself down next to her and waiting for her to finish, thinking it would be a good idea to then pull her into his arms and hold her. She’s shaking, her face pale, and he can’t help but think how beautiful she is, even now.

Then she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and turns to him, glaring. “How did you get in here?” she demands, and his face falls at the note of anger in her voice. “I didn’t unlock the window. The bathroom was locked too, come to think of it. I didn’t _want_ you here, Jack Kelly!”

His stomach dropping at her tone, he shows her the hairpin sheepishly, dropping it on the sink. She probably doesn’t want him to have it anymore. He should probably leave now, instead of making her feel worse. But she’s probably not really mad at him, he reasons — it’s far more likely she’s frustrated with herself, and lashing out.

“I was worried,” he says, trying not to feel to hurt. Well, at least trying not to let it show. He doesn’t want her to feel even worse. “I wanted to make sure nothing was wrong, and it’s a damn good thing I did. You don’t have to hide from me, Ace. I can help.” Surely she doesn’t have to be so independent _all _the time.

“You are going to get sick, idiot,” she all but growls, bending over the toilet again even though nothing comes up this time. “And then the boys will all get sick, and then no one will be making money, and then you won’t eat so they can, and then everything will be a mess. I am not having that on my shoulders, not this week. This article is–“

“Maybe let’s not worry about that now,” Jack says as delicately as possible, holding her hair away from her face with one hand and rubbing her back with the other. She’d probably argue if she could, but even she seems to realize that trying to yell at someone while vomiting violently would just result in a mess. And when she stops heaving, he pulls her into his lap immediately this time, before she has a chance to act scary and ruin it. He just wants to hold her.

“Gonna get you sick,” she mumbles again, but then her face is buried in his neck and his arms are around her and he thinks finally, maybe, she’s done arguing.

They sit in the bathroom on the cold tile for a little while longer, and when it’s clear her stomach is empty he heaves himself to his feet and carries her to her bed. Once she’s buried under the covers and curled herself up in a little ball, he runs to the kitchen to grab a glass of water in case she needs it, leaving it on the nightstand. Then he just hovers awkwardly by the window, unsure of what he should do. Does she still want him to leave? Is she really angry at him for breaking in? Should he go through the window or lock it and leave through the door for once?

He’s playing with the latch on the window, ready to make his way out of the building, when she interrupts his plan. Her voice is rough and tired-sounding, but not angry anymore.

“You should at least eat something,” she says, rolling over to blink at him slowly. “Since I guess I’m not getting rid of you anytime soon.”

He shrugs, frowning again. He is never going anywhere without her express permission again — this is not worth it. “Ace, I can leave if you really want me to . . .” He trails off, unable to read her expression.

She makes a huffy sound, then lifts up the covers beside her and glares at him until he finally curls up next to her, pulling her head to his chest. “Sorry I was mean,” she says softly, looking up at him. Her eyes are glassy, and he presses a quick kiss to her forehead before she squirms away. “But I still don’t want you to get sick,” she adds quickly, resisting his efforts to draw her back.

“I’m either gonna get sick or I’m not, Ace, nothin’ we can do about that now,” he says, grinning smugly at the annoyed expression on her face. “You ain’t mad at me?”

“That’s hard with you being so damn heroic the whole time,” she grumbles, and he laughs outright before finally succeeding in tugging her back to him.

“Just sleep,” he says, and she does, her breathing evening out almost as soon as her eyes flutter closed. Before long, he’s asleep too.

When he wakes up in the morning, his stomach queasy and the light filtering in through the window only making his sudden headache worse, she’s already gone, presumably back at work. It’s better that way — she won’t be able to rub the fact that he did indeed get sick in his face until she returns that evening.

But then he rolls over and sees the hairpin carefully placed on the nightstand, along with his hat and a fresh glass of water. He suddenly feels just a little bit better, and smiles before rolling over and going back to sleep.


End file.
